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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25572295">Love is a Chemical</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel'>chamel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deep down Illya is a marshmallow, Developing Relationship, Drinking to Cope, Feelings, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gaby picks up the pieces of course, Getting Together, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Napoleon cooking, Napoleon is a thief but an honorable one, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Soft boys being soft, Stupid Boys, idiots to lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:41:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25572295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Says here it’s designed to reduce impulse control and elicit intense feelings of loyalty, devotion, and romantic attraction,” Gaby says, running her finger over the paper as she reads.</p><p>Napoleon feels his stomach turn at the description. “So, what, basically a love potion? That’s insane.”</p><p>(Illya is captured and drugged, and Napoleon has to deal with the consequences)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illya Kuryakin &amp; Napoleon Solo &amp; Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>472</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I knew that when I started mainlining Napollya fics that I'd be writing one before too long, and so here I am, 5 years late to the party. I got inspired by a song, and although the concept is kind of silly it of course turned into an angst fest. I also absolutely did not intend for this to be so long, but 10k later I'm only halfway through. </p><p>Title/lyrics/inspiration from the song "Chemical" by Beck.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>You say that love is a chemical</em><br/>
<em>Feel it down to the soul</em><br/>
<em>What I really, really want to know</em><br/>
<em>Is if my mind's in control</em><br/>
<em>I'm so high</em><br/>
<em>Love is a chemical</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They find Illya in a lab on the third floor, unconcious and bound with an absurd number of straps to a chair in the middle of the room. It’s not exactly surprising, but Napoleon briefly wonders what led to it in this particular case. Do they strap down everyone, just in case? Did they have some foreknowledge of Illya Kuryakin’s nearly inhuman strength? Or did he break several chairs before they gave up and threw every strap they could find at him? In any case, at this moment it is entirely overkill with the amount of sedatives they appear to have given him. Illya’s head lolls forward, and it’s only because he can see the steady movement of his shoulders as he’s breathing that Napoleon doesn’t panic.</p><p>Three people white coats are clustered together near the chair, talking in low tones, and Napoleon can’t quite make out what they are saying. He and Gaby have cleared the building except for this room and the adjoining observation room, which seems to contain a single occupant. It’s clear that the men have no idea that their facility has been inflitrated, which is by design. In and out without raising a fuss to alert the neighbors. Peril’s capture hadn’t been part of the plan, but it had certainly quickly led them to the research facility. Napoleon signals to Gaby and they flank the door to the room silently.</p><p><em>On three</em>, he mouths, and she answers with a short nod.</p><p>As he’s mouthing ‘two’, he hears one of the people inside the room say, “Injecting now.”</p><p>Before he has even realized he’s moved, the occupants of the room lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. Dimly he’s aware that Gaby has taken care of the person in the observation room. They’re shooting tranquilizers, and the guns make only soft pops as they fire, but even so the sounds are more distant in his ears than he thinks they should be. Napoleon holsters his gun and is across the room in a flash, kneeling next to Illya and pressing his fingers desperately against his neck. His pulse is slow, but steady, and Napoleon releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.</p><p>“Peril,” he says, grabbing his partner’s shoulder and shaking slightly. “C’mon, Illya, wake up.”</p><p>Illya doesn’t stir. Napoleon can feel his heart pounding as he struggles to unbuckle the straps, silently cursing whatever sadist designed this chair. He tries not to think that they were too late, that they should have moved faster, that if they’d forgone stealth maybe they could have cleared the building before his partner had been injected with some unknown substance that was doing God knows what to him. Maybe if he’d been better, Illya would be ok.</p><p>To some extent, it’s what’s been echoing in his mind ever since Illya pushed him bodily out of the trap that closed around him instead of Napoleon, that got him into this situation in the first place. He can’t let himself dwell on it though, he needs to do his job.</p><p>In a moment Gaby is next to him. She bends down to pick up the spent syringe from the doctor’s hand, but Napoleon can see that it’s unlabeled. They had intel that this lab was working on a large array of chemical weapons, so it could have been almost anything. His fingers tremble as he tries to work faster.</p><p>Illya slumps forward as he releases the last strap and Napoleon springs up to catch him, pushing him gently so that he’s leaning back in the chair. He can’t help but check Illya’s pulse again, waiting to feel the steady throb of blood. Is it faster than it was a moment ago, or is he imagining things?</p><p>He puts a hand on Illya’s face, cupping his chin gently, and shakes him. “Illya. Please. Wake up,” Napoleon whispers, and he can hear his voice breaking. Desperately, he hopes that Gaby does not, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Illya to look at her.</p><p>There are a few tense beats, and then Illya’s eyelids flutter open. He looks at Napoleon curiously, as if he’s seeing him for the first time. Napoleon is momentarily so lost in the icy blue of his eyes that he doesn’t realize Illya is moving until his hand covers Napoleon’s, warm and heavy.</p><p>“Napoleon?” he says, his voice thick and distant.</p><p>He has to swallow hard to keep from making some sound that would be more incriminating than anything else, but he can’t help the relieved smile that he feels down to his toes. Illya is awake. He’s ok, for now at least. Napoleon slowly pulls their joined hands down from Illya’s face and reluctantly extracts his. He is sure that if Illya wasn’t drugged, that amount of handholding would be likely to net him a punch.</p><p>“I’m here, Peril,” he breaths.</p><p>Illya frowns down at his now-empty hand but nods. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes close again and he’s out. Napoleon hastily checks his pulse but it’s still there, and before he can try to wake his partner again, Gaby speaks up.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure it was this,” she tells him, holding a small, half-empty bottle of clear liquid in her hand. “They call it amafulven. The files are here.”</p><p>She’s standing behind a desk set off to one side of the room, leafing through a stack of papers with her brow furrowed. Napoleon stands and takes a few steps toward her, reluctant to leave Illya’s side. Whatever they’ve given Illya doesn’t seem to be lethal, and he’s certainly never heard of it. “What is it, some kind of truth serum?” he asks.</p><p>“Says here it’s designed to reduce impulse control and elicit intense feelings of loyalty, devotion, and romantic attraction,” she says, running her finger over the paper as she reads.</p><p>Napoleon feels his stomach turn at the description. “So, what, basically a <em>love</em> potion? That’s insane.”</p><p>Gaby looks up at him and frowns, shrugging. “I don’t know, it seems kind of brilliant. In an evil way, of course. If you can make your subject want to do anything for you…” she trails off with a wave of her hand, but the implications are obvious.</p><p>Napoleon, of all people, should know better. Not because he’s the one they send to seduce people for information—that’s nothing like what this drug is capable of, if it really does what the file says. No, he should know better because he’s known for a while that the list of things he wouldn’t do for Illya is vanishingly small. Napoleon can’t guarantee that he wouldn’t commit treason against his own country, if Illya asked it of him. He’d trust that Illya had a good reason, of course, and he liked to think he had his limits, but he honestly wasn’t sure. Weaponizing that… could be catastrophic in the wrong hands.</p><p>“How do they control who the subject falls in love with?” he asks in what he hopes is a sufficiently detatched tone.</p><p>“Hmm,” Gaby hums, shuffling through the papers again. After a minute she stops and taps the page. “Here it is, dosage instructions. ‘Subjects must be heavily sedated before dosing… Extreme caution must be taken because the subject will imprint on the first person they see upon waking.’”</p><p>Gaby looks up at him, her expression carefully blank, and Napoleon can feel his eyes going wide despite himself. Behind him, Illya stirs again, letting out a low groan.</p><p>“Did anyone ever tell you you’re very pretty, Cowboy?” Illya slurs.</p><p><em>Oh no</em>, is the only thing running through Napoleon’s mind.<em> Oh no, oh no, oh no.</em></p><p>Slowly he turns back to look at Illya, who is looking quite loopy. He’s leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, head bent as he peers up through his long lashes at Napoleon. A kind of sappy smile rests on his lips, and that more than anything else makes Napoleon concerned for his well-being.</p><p>Napoleon takes a cautious step forward and crouches down next to the chair. Normally he might place a steadying hand on his partner’s shoulder, but under the circumstances he doesn’t think that’s wise.</p><p>“How are you feeling, Peril?” he asks, hovering awkwardly by Illya’s side.</p><p>“Weird,” Illya answers. He gives his head a little shake, as if to clear out the cobwebs.</p><p>“You’ve been drugged,” Napoleon tells him. “We’re trying to figure out exactly how it works. Just… hang out here for a bit?”</p><p>Illya nods, dropping his head between his shoulders again. Napoleon wonders what’s going on his head right now, if he realizes what is happening to him. His file says he’s been trained to resist most common truth serums, but there isn’t anything common about this drug. Without thinking, Napoleon gives Illya’s knee a friendly pat as he stands, and doesn’t miss the way that his partner tenses up. To say this was going to be challenging would be putting it mildly.</p><p>When he looks back to Gaby she’s biting her lip as if trying to keep from laughing, mirth obvious in her eyes.</p><p>“This is <em>not</em> funny,” he hisses through clenched teeth as he rapidly joins her behind the desk. Grabbing her arm in one hand and the papers in the other, he pulls her into the observation room where Illya won’t be able to overhear them.</p><p>“It’s a <em>little</em> funny,” she says quietly, trying hard to school her expression back to seriousness. “Only because we found him right away.”</p><p>Napoleon shoots her a withering glare as he shuffles through the papers hurridly. <em>Only because you don’t know how I feel about him</em>, he wants to say, but doesn’t.</p><p>“I mean, he’s already intensely loyal to you,” Gaby continues nonchalantly. “And I’m sure you can fend off any unwanted advances.”</p><p>He’s not sure whether the scoff that leaves his lips is in response to the idea that Illya is loyal to Napoleon, rather than to his job, or Gaby’s casual inclusion of the word <em>unwanted</em>. Does she suspect? From the beginning he’s learned not to underestimate her abilities as a spy, but he also knows—despite what Peril says—that he is also a damned good one, and a more proficient liar than either of them. He’d been ever so careful once he realized what was happening. No, he decides, it was probably just some commentary on his playboy habits.</p><p>Gaby, for her part, interprets his scoff as a reaction to the former part of her argument and rolls her eyes at him. “Please. I’ve seen him cover for you too many times during mission debriefings to believe that you’re nothing more than a colleague to him. You’re his friend, Solo. All I’m saying is, better you than someone else.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t be saying that if you were the one he’d seen first,” Napoleon snaps. He does not need this rubbed in his face, even if she has no idea she’s doing it.</p><p>She just shrugs. “Been there, done that. Only fair that you have to deal with his puppy dog eyes this time.”<br/>
<br/>
He knows she’s referring to the brief period after Rome where she and Illya had danced around each other, stealing away in quiet moments to the comfort of each others’ embrace. Napoleon doesn't know how far it had gone, and doesn’t really want to, but he suspects not that far given how flighty Illya had been whenever he would happen to walk in on them together. Then one day, listening to them bickering about trackers, he’d been struck that they had been acting more like siblings than lovers for a while without him really noticing.</p><p>Still, whatever had happened between them was different. Illya hadn’t been <em>drugged</em>, he wants to argue, but he knows it will be futile. Instead he asks, “How long does it last?”</p><p>“I couldn’t find anything,” Gaby replies, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine more than a day. They’d want information, not a liability.”</p><p>“Is that all you think love is? A liability?” Napoleon can’t help but ask, raising an eyebrow at her. He would have expected that out of Illya, but not her. Sometimes her apparent innocence and optimism makes him forget that she had been working with Waverly before they met, and that growing up in East Germany the daughter of a nuclear scientist must have more darkly colored her worldview than she usually lets on. The contradiction is part of what makes her such a devastatingly effective spy.</p><p>She shrugs. “In this game? Sometimes. Don’t you?”</p><p>Napoleon doesn’t answer the question; he’s finding it distressingly difficult to keep his careful mask in place under the circumstances. Instead, he stares back down at the papers and hears himself ask, “Is that why things didn’t work out between you and Illya?”</p><p>Gaby actually snorts. “What Illya and I had wasn’t love. Not like that, anyway. When all that initial infatuation wore away, we realized our relationship felt more right as friends. As family.”</p><p>He nods in response, though he can’t bring himself to speak. He’d hoped that would happen to his own feelings, that he was simply infatuated with his partner—a fit of temporary madness—but if anything as time progressed the feeling only became more deeply entrenched in his heart. He finds himself staring through the observation window at Illya without meaning to, and doesn’t notice that Gaby has moved to his side until she puts a comforting hand on his arm.</p><p>“He’ll be fine,” she says, apparently—hopefully—misreading his reaction. “I’m sure the effects won’t last long.”</p><p>They spend the next half hour pulling every file they can from the research lab, every scrap of information on the drug and any others in development. A team from U.N.C.L.E. will be through soon to arrest all of the workers they’ve tranquilized and destroy the facility, but they need to make sure that all of the people responsible have been apprehended and none of the drugs have made their way out into the world. After 10 minutes or so Illya joins them, and if he’s feeling the effects of the drug he is doing a good job of hiding it. Napoleon can’t help but watch him out of the corner of his eye, something that doesn’t escape Illya.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m fine, Cowboy,” he says as he grabs a handful of papers out of a cabinet and tosses them onto a desk. “Stop watching me like I’m going to collapse.”</p><p>Napoleon drops his eyes down to cabinet he’s clearing and presses his lips together. “You <em>were</em> unconcious not that long ago.”</p><p>“And now I’m not.”</p><p>“Found the personnel records,” Gaby calls from another office. “Looks like we may have a problem.” When they join Gaby in the office she’s staring down at the file of a man that they definitely did not see when they cleared the building. “Do remember seeing this man, Illya?” she asks as she pushes the file toward him.</p><p>Illya picks it up, frowning, and shakes his head. “No, he wasn’t here.”</p><p>“Who is he?” Napoleon asks warily. As an answer, Illya passes him the paper.</p><p>“I think he’s the lead scientist,” Gaby says as he skims it. Olivier Bekker, chemist, scholar, supervillain. Napoleon supplies the last part himself. “Which means if he’s not here,” she continues, “he’s still out there, and presumably he knows how to make more of this stuff.”</p><p>Napoleon sighs and drops the page back onto the desk. “So what you’re telling me is this mission isn’t over.”</p><p>“Unfortunately not.”</p><p>“There’s an address in the file,” Illya says. “We should go.”</p><p>The look that Gaby gives Napoleon is hesitant, and its obvious Illya sees it immediately. Her eyes drop back down to the table. “We should wait until the cleanup crew gets here to secure the building.”</p><p>“What else,” Illya demands. “What is wrong?”<br/>
<br/>
“Maybe you should sit this one out, Peril,” Napoleon says carefully. “Get checked out by medical, just in case.”<br/>
<br/>
Illya presses his lips together in an expression that says this will be a difficult sell and crosses his arms across his chest. “I told you, I am fine. No lingering effects.”</p><p>Gaby looks at Napoleon again, as if saying that this is up to him. Which, to be fair, it probably affects him more than anyone else other than Illya himself. On one hand, he doesn’t really care to find out what the full effects of the drug will be, and it might be better for everyone if they were separated. On the other, though, Illya does seem relatively normal, and the three of the them are a team because they work best together.</p><p>“Ok,” he says eventually, “we’ll go together. But if you start feeling funny, any sign that something is wrong, you have to tell us.”</p><p>“Whatever you say, Cowboy,” Illya replies. The ghost of a smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “I don’t think their drug works, anyway. Maybe on someone not so strong.”</p><p>Napoleon huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. Some of the tension seems to leave him. He should have known that Illya would be able to resist the effects. Or maybe he is right, and the drug just doesn’t work, at least not past the first few minutes. Whatever the explanation, surely it will all be ok.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s not anywhere near ok.</p><p>The first thing that tells Napoleon that Illya is not behaving normally is the way that he constantly puts himself between Napoleon and anything that could conceal a threat. That in and of itself isn’t too out of character: Illya usually insists on being the first person through a door, and often seems to be positioning himself as some kind of human shield to both his partners. But now there’s a strange over-protectiveness to his movements directed unmistakably at Napoleon, and it’s hard not to read too much into it.</p><p>Then there’s how Illya keeps looking at him when he thinks Napoleon won’t notice. The glances are subtle, very easy to miss, but unmistakable once Napoleon figures out what his partner is doing. Even then, Illya’s face betrays nothing else, so Napoleon thinks maybe he’s just being paranoid and tries to ignore them. It’s not until they are searching Bekker’s unfortunately empty house that he knows for certain something is wrong.</p><p>Napoleon ends up sitting at a rather ostentatious mahogany desk in the study, sorting through what’s left of the files. Drawers have been emptied and left hanging open, but in his haste their quarry dropped pages here and there. He’s found a few financial documents that got left behind and point to some potential landholdings in the Netherlands, which is promising even if they lack the addresses. He has a contact in Amsterdam who, though she runs in art circles rather than science ones, has dabbled in the drug world enough that she might know someone who knows someone.</p><p>His foot rests on the top of an open drawer and he taps idly as he thinks about whether or not she will be happy to see him again, but before he can come to any conclusions the drawer slides the rest of the way out and lands with a heavy <em>thunk</em>. Heavier than he would expect, given it was apparently empty. Key word: <em>apparently</em>.</p><p>Napoleon turns the drawer upside down and knocks carefully. Definitely a hidden compartment. The mechanism is easy enough to find, and when he triggers it he’s surprised to find a slim notebook tucked away inside. Briefly he wonders if it is even Bekker’s; anything you keep in a hidden compartment is probably going to be the first thing you grab when you leave in a hurry. The inside of it is filled with crabbed handwriting in what looks like Dutch. Not one of his better languages, but some of the pages are filled with chemical formulae, so it probably does belong to their mark.</p><p>“Jackpot,” he says loudly when he finds a page that unmistakably contains the address on the outskirts of Amsterdam labeled ‘laboratorium.’</p><p>Gaby is upstairs and probably doesn’t hear him, but Illya is only a few rooms over and appears after a moment, looking at Napoleon curiously. Napoleon can’t help but grin triumphantly as he waves the book in the air.</p><p>“Is that what it looks like?” Illya asks. He crosses the room and steps around the desk to stand behind Napoleon’s chair.</p><p>“If you think it looks like a hidden notebook full of secrets that our unhappy scientist forgot in his rush to leave, then yes,” Napoleon answers, ignoring the eye roll it nets him. He sets the notebook on the desk and smooths the pages open to the one containing the address. “I mean, who just leaves the location to their secret lab lying… around…”</p><p>Napoleon’s voice falters when he turns his head to look up at Illya and finds his partner <em>extremely</em> close as he’s leaning over to look at the book on the desk. Close enough that if he had leaned the wrong way while turning he might have ended up with his lips pressed to Illya’s jaw, or somewhere more incriminating. Illya isn’t touching him, but mere centimeters separate his chest from Napoleon’s shoulder, and Napoleon can practically feel the heat of his body. The scent of Illya—his soap, his sweat, the lingering antiseptic from the lab—fills his nostrils and makes something clench deep in his gut. It’s all he can do not to pull back or tense up, or, he thinks hysterically, lean in and kiss him. He should be concerned that Illya got so close without him noticing it, but he’s more concerned that his partner got that close at all.</p><p>It only lasts a second before Illya seems to notice their unusual proximity as well and straightens slowly, pretending that nothing was amiss. They stare at each other for a moment, neither saying anything, until, mercifully, Gaby walks through the door.</p><p>“Nothing of use upstairs,” she huffs. “Did you find anything?”</p><p>“Cowboy found an address in Amsterdam,” Illya tells her.</p><p>She grins at them. “That’s great! I’ll contact Waverly when we get back to the safehouse.”</p><p>Gaby turns to leave, and Napoleon is about to rise from the chair when he feels a brief touch on his back, light enough to be a caress. He looks quickly up at Illya, but the Russian is steadfastly staring away from him, apparently ignoring his wayward hand. Well, then, Napoleon will ignore it too. He rises and tucks the notebook into his jacket.</p><p>“Shall we?” he asks, and Illya just nods and follows him out of the room.</p><p>He can practically feel his partner’s eyes on his back as they walk to the car.</p><p>Everything is definitely not ok.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“We have tickets on the first flight to Amsterdam tomorrow morning,” Gaby tells them.</p><p>She’s just been talking to Waverly about the mission, and Napoleon wonders how much she told him. It’s probably a moot point anyway; by now, the intel that the cleanup crew collected from them has probably already been returned to HQ, and Waverly will know what the drug does. What he might not know is that Illya has been injected. Napoleon thinks that Gaby must not have told him, since it appears Illya is coming with them to Holland. He’s not sure how he feels about that.</p><p>“I didn’t say anything, about you,” she tells Illya quietly, confirming his suspicions. “Promise me you’re totally fine?”<br/>
<br/>
“I promise, Chop shop,” Illya’s low voice rumbles. “Never better.”</p><p>Napoleon raises an eyebrow at that, but he’s staring into the pot of stew, so no one sees it. He wonders if he should have said something to Gaby, after Bekker’s house. But then again, if he can be an effective agent while hopelessly in love with his partner, why couldn’t Illya, temporarily at least? On yet another hand, if Illya does something stupid and gets himself hurt because of this, Napoleon will never forgive himself.</p><p>This is the quiet war going on inside his head, and unfortunately for him its distracting him. Illya sneaks up on him again and hums approvingly as he smells the stew. He’s leaning over Napoleon’s shoulder, not as close as in the office, but close enough that Napoleon feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end.</p><p>“You always make things that take too long,” Illya complains when Napoleon tries to bat his hands away from the pot.</p><p>“Well, then, maybe you can cook next time, and I’ll sit around playing chess with myself,” Napoleon retorts.</p><p>This particular subject is a familiar one to bicker about, and it lulls him into a feeling of normalcy. He turns his head carefully and sees Illya smiling, the barest curve of lips that wouldn’t even be recognizable as an expression of mirth to an outsider. It’s a normal amount of smiling for Illya in a moment like this, and, though reassuring, it also sends a thread of want winding through him. He drops his eyes back to his stew, stirring with purpose.</p><p>“We would be up all night, waiting you to finish that game,” Illya says, predictably. But then Napoleon feels a warm hand pressed to the small of his back, and Illya murmurs, “besides, I like your cooking.”</p><p>It’s not a surprise, really; he knows that Illya and Gaby both very much enjoy his food, even if they aren’t always vocal about it. Those moments when they say anything are rare, though, and that in combination with Illya’s hand is enough give him heart palpitations. He barely has time to get caught up in the moment, though, before Illya’s hand is gone and he reaches down to pluck Napoleon’s glass of scotch off the counter.</p><p>“What the—” Napoleon exclaims as Illya takes a swig and sets it back down, a strange mischief twinkling in his eyes. It takes Napoleon’s breath away.</p><p>“Since when do you drink on a mission?” Gaby pipes up from the chair where she’s curled up. Illya is already walking back to the living room, and he settles himself on the couch in front of the small chess set.</p><p>“Who’s drinking?” Illya replies archly. “It was one sip.”</p><p>“Hmph,” she huffs, narrowing her eyes at him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Their safehouse has a small garden out back, tended just enough that Napoleon wonders if U.N.C.L.E. actually employs a gardener to come around and make sure it doesn’t return to nature completely. Earlier, from the window in the kitchen he spotted a bench tucked away among the plants, practically begging to be the site of quiet contemplation. Not that Napoleon wants to do much contemplation of his current circumstances, but the bench calls to him nonetheless.</p><p>Gaby begs off soon after she and Illya clean up after dinner, yawning as she disappears into her room clutching a glass of gin. Not particularly looking forward to lots of alone time with his partner, Napoleon slips out the back door soon after. The night air is warm, but with a crispness around the edges that speaks to the coming autumn even as the last blooms subtly perfume the air. The cottage would make for a nice vacation spot, quiet and out of the way, if vacationing was ever something they partook in.</p><p>Napoleon has only been sitting on the bench for a few minutes when he hears the back door open and Illya wanders out. He fights back a sigh; he shouldn’t begrudge the man some time outside in the pleasant night. Illya ignores him at first, staring up at the stars as if he’d come out here for no other purpose. The light of the half moon casts a cool, blue glow over him, rendering the elegant lines of his face into something worked by an expressionist master; Franz Marc, perhaps, Napoleon thinks.</p><p>After a while Illya meanders toward the bench, and Napoleon pretends not to watch his approach. He stops a step away, clearly waiting to be invited. The Russian has affected a casual air, and Napoleon thinks it’s a pretty strong performance, but he can see the tension in the way Illya holds his shoulders and the small movements of his hands.</p><p>“Would you care to sit?” Napoleon says, gesturing to the empty bench next to him.</p><p>Illya pretends that the hadn’t been angling for this, nodding like he was surprised at the invitation. He lowers himself carefully onto the bench, sitting closer than he would have normally, close enough that their shoulders touch.</p><p>Now that he’s sitting next to Napoleon, Illya’s careful attempt at remaining casual is tearing at the seams. His finger begins tapping on his knee, barely noticable because he’s trying to hide it on the far side of his body. Napoleon can tell it’s not the kind of thing that will result in an outburst, but it’s taking a toll on Illya nonetheless. The tension grows and grows until Napoleon simply cannot stand it anymore. Talking about feelings has never been his strong suit, but if they are going to work together for the next few days they are at least going to need to talk about what is happening in Illya’s head.</p><p>“How are you doing?” Napoleon opens cautiously.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Illya answers, staring off across the garden, eyes focusing in the middle distance.</p><p>“You don’t look fine, Peril.”</p><p>Illya purses his lips and the hand that’s not tapping balls into a fist. It’s all Napoleon needs to confirm that the drug is affecting his partner far more than he’s letting on.</p><p>“You can tell me about what’s happening,” Napoleon says. “What you’re feeling. I won’t hold anything you say over you.”</p><p>“I don’t need to talk,” Illya grits out between clenched teeth, and it’s all Napoleon can do not to sigh at him. If anyone hates talking about feelings more than Napoleon, it’s probaby Peril.</p><p>“If it’s easier, you can think about it as intelligence gathering,” Napoleon offers, switching tacks. “We need to know about the effects of the drug, so that we can better understand how it works and how to fight it.”</p><p>Illya appears to consider this, but after a moment he gives a minute shake of his head. “It won’t matter if we find Bekker. Destroy the drug.”</p><p>“If one asshole figured out how to do it, I’m willing to bet others will,” Napoleon counters. “The information you provide may save lives in the future.”</p><p>It’s as if Napoleon has just clicked all of the tumblers into place on the lock that is Illya. The tension leaves the Russian’s shoulders and he slumps forward, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His fingers push up into his hair, making it stand up in messy tufts, and Napoleon tries his hardest not to get lost imagining his own hands in place of Illya’s.</p><p>“Most of the time I can ignore these… these <em>feelings</em>,” Illya says quietly, biting down on the word as if he could tear it apart with his teeth. “But sometimes they’re so <em>intense</em>, it feels like I am going to burst.”</p><p>The words quite accurately describe how Napoleon feels these days, and he marvels at it. Apparently the drug does just what the scientists designed it to do. And if it can do that to someone with Illya’s training, then most mere mortals wouldn’t stand a chance.</p><p>“Sometimes,” Illya continues, “I cannot control my actions before they happen. Is not like the episodes. I know what I’m doing… I don’t want to stop.”</p><p>“That’ll be the stuff that lowers impulse control,” Napoleon muses, staring up at the moon. The effect of the drug that would be hardest to suppress, even for someone trained, designed to make the target slip up. It explains the touches, the closeness.</p><p>It explains the look Illya is giving him now. His partner is sitting up again, body turned slightly toward Napoleon. Those ice blue eyes are dark in the low light, and so full of longing and hunger that it makes Napoleon’s throat close up. Abruptly he’s achingly aware of where their bodies are in contact at the hip and along the outer edge of his thigh, and their points of contact are only increasing as Illya leans toward him. He’s frozen in place, torn between the knowledge that he should move away and the raw desire clawing in his gut, chasing away all reason and rationality.</p><p>“Peril,” Napoleon breaths into the rapidly narrowing space between them, “what are you doing?” He hopes, desperately, by saying it, that Illya will regain some control of his actions. That Illya will be the stronger one, as he usually is.</p><p>That hope is thoroughly dashed as Illya only moves closer, his breath hot on Napoleon’s face, and whispers, “what I want.”</p><p>Napoleon isn’t sure where the burst of resolve comes from, but suddenly he is scrambling backward, practically falling off the bench in his effort to put space between them. “No,” he hears himself saying, hardly recognizing his own voice for all the strain in it. “I can’t let you do this.”</p><p>The look that Illya gives him is heartwrenching. Gaby was not kidding about those puppy dog eyes: they are a lethal weapon that Napoleon had not realized Illya had in his arsenal. Illya looks so incredibly hurt by his rejection, it’s all Napoleon can do not to rush back over to him, to take him in his arms and kiss away the lines creasing his face.</p><p>“This isn’t real,” he says, as much to convince himself as Illya, “this isn’t you. This is the drug. I can’t let you do something you’re going to hate yourself for.” <em>Something you’re going to hate me for,</em> he doesn’t add. <em>Something that I’ll hate myself for</em>.</p><p>Because he knows. He knows that even something as small as a kiss would probably be too much for their partnership to come back from. He knows that the rage that Illya would direct toward him would be nothing compared to the self-loathing Napoleon would feel if he allowed himself to take something that was not freely given. No matter how much it seemed like it was.</p><p>Illya’s face crumples, but he nods as he puts his face in his hands again. He seems to take a second to compose himself, and when he pushes himself to standing his expression his carefully composed.</p><p>“We should get some rest,” Illya says flatly. “Early flight tomorrow.”</p><p>He doesn’t wait for Napoleon to reply before he disappears back into the house. Illya is right, of course, but Napoleon doubts that sleep will come to him any time soon. He collapses back onto the bench and runs a hand through his hair, and it’s only because his partners are trying to sleep inside that he manages not to scream, or perhaps laugh hysterically. This has got to be one of the more excruciating forms of psychological torture that he’s endured, and it’s not even meant to be. Briefly he considers sneaking off to find a warm and willing body to work off some of his frustrations, but the memory of Illya’s anguished face stops him. He doubts he’d be able to think of anything else tonight, anyway.</p><p>Instead he stares at the moon for a while, wondering what he did to deserve this, before he finally goes inside and stares at the ceiling of his room for the rest of the night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They don’t talk about what happened in the garden, or Illya’s feelings, for two more days.</p><p>Napoleon does a decent job, he thinks, of not reacting to the subtle touches and looks that Illya gives him. It helps that Gaby sits between them on the plane, and that Napoleon spends most of the flight asleep against the window. Illya seems to relax over time, as if coming to some equillibrium with the feelings. By the next day Napoleon isn’t sure that he’s under the effects of the drug at all; the touches stop, and they fall back into something more closely resembling their normal routine. He’d like to know, but he also doesn’t want to bring it up. If Illya is clear-minded, there’s a good chance that he’s also horrified by the feelings that had been elicited in him, by what he’d been doing the past days. Napoleon doesn’t know for sure what his thoughts are on men who fall in love with other men, but Illya is Russian, so odds are high that they are not positive. He can’t bear the idea of finding out.</p><p>He ends up talking to Gaby about it instead, although in hindsight it might not have been the best idea. Illya’s near-constant assault on his carefully constructed walls has made him slip up several times, and he knows that Gaby must have caught one of his unguarded looks at some point.</p><p>They’re sitting in their suite at the hotel in Amsterdam, waiting for Illya to emerge from the shower so they can have a nightcap and discuss their next move. Well, Napoleon and Gaby will have a nightcap, and Illya will drink water and shoot disapproving looks at the amount of liquor his partners imbibe. They spent two days watching the lab for signs of movement, but no one had come or gone during the day at least, so eventually they’d let themselves in to take a look around. It had been more disappointing than Bekker’s house, clearly long disused. Something in Napoleon’s gut tells him the scientist is here, perhaps just laying low, but they aren’t about to keep watching the lab for days without doing something else.</p><p>He looks over to where Gaby is curled up in a large armchair, reading a magazine, a tumbler of gin already clasped in one hand. For all intents and purposes she looks engrossed, but he can tell in the way she’s holding her body that her thoughts are elsewhere. Probably on the mission, though she’s holding back until Illya joins them. Napoleon gives a minute sigh and swirls the scotch in his glass. Now’s probably as good a time as any.</p><p>“Have you talked to Illya lately?” he asks lightly. She peers up at him over the top of her magazine, her eyes demanding more from him. “Has he said, ah, how he’s doing?”</p><p>“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she retorts. She’s not relinquishing her magazine yet, keeping her nose buried in it even though it’s clear she hasn’t read a word.</p><p>“Gaby, please,” Napoleon sighs.</p><p>She closes the magazine with a flourish and tosses it on the coffee table, then folds her arms in front of her and affixes Napoleon with a shrewd glare. For a moment he wishes for the magazine again, for some semblance of a barrier between him and the weight of her stare.</p><p>“He says he’s feeling better,” she tells him. “That the impulses he can’t control are gone. But I think you knew that.”</p><p>Napoleon waits for a moment, hoping she’ll continue, but she just stares at him evenly. God damn it, she is going to make him ask. He looks off across the room, suddenly finding the hideous hotel artwork quite arresting. “And, the other effects…?”</p><p>He hears her sigh, and when he looks back he sees her expression has softened. She shakes her head, which he takes to mean that the unwanted feelings are still around. Her eyes are full of something like pity, and he doesn’t like it. “I’m sorry, Napoleon.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For laughing, back in the lab,” she says sincerely. “I didn’t know.”</p><p>A pit of cold forms in his stomach, like he just swallowed a hunk of ice. He takes a sip of scotch, hoping the warmth will chase it away, but instead he just feels vaguely ill. “Know what,” he says, mostly into his glass. It’s hardly a question, but she answers it anyway.</p><p>“How you feel about him.”</p><p>Napoleon clenches his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, and he can’t keep the harsh bitterness out of his voice when he speaks again. “And you think you know now, do you?”</p><p>“You’re good at hiding things, Solo. Better than any of us. But all of this is too much, even for you.” Her voice is gentle, understanding, but the pity doesn’t leave her expression, and it only infuriates him more. It’s all he can do not to slam his glass down and storm out of the room.</p><p>“Can we not talk about this?” he grits out.</p><p>At that she shrugs and picks up her magazine again. “You’re the one who brought it up in the first place.”</p><p>“I brought up Illya’s feelings, not mine.”</p><p>Gaby cocks an eyebrow at him over her magazine again, and for not the first time he deeply regrets his near compulsion to get the last word in. Christ, why can’t he let it drop?</p><p>“If you think that’s true, then you have bigger problems than I thought,” she murmurs, not looking at him.</p><p>Napoleon opens his mouth to vehemently deny this accusation, but he’s saved from undoubtedly making a bigger fool of himself by Illya’s reappearance. His partner has dressed again in his usual slacks and a dark turtleneck, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Napoleon’s eyes drag across Illya’s muscular forearms before he can stop himself, and he forces his eyes closed. No wonder Gaby seems to have him all figured out.</p><p>When he opens his eyes again he sees Illya looking between Napoleon and Gaby, brow furrowed, and his gaze lingers on Napoleon for an fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Napoleon takes a drink of scotch to keep from swallowing for no reason.</p><p>“What are you discussing?” Illya asks as he sits down on the couch next to, but sufficiently distant from, Napoleon.</p><p>“Nothing,” Gaby lies, her voice light. Illya frowns but doesn’t push, and instead stares down at a half-finished chess game in front of him. She drops the magazine into her lap, looking at Napoleon again. “There aren’t any other addresses in the notebook? Or the files?”</p><p>The shift of topic back to the mission releases some of the tension from Napoleon’s shoulders. He shakes his head ruefully. “I think he has property here, but no clue where.”</p><p>“This is a waste of time,” Illya grumbles. “He may stay hidden for months. We don’t even know he came here. ”</p><p>Gaby sighs. “Waverly agrees with you. He’s going to recall us in two days. HQ will keep an ear out for Bekker’s reappearance.”</p><p>“We can’t go without finding him,” Napoleon says, trying to avoid looking horror-stricken. “What about…” He trails off. If they leave without finding Bekker, they won’t know if there’s an antidote to the drug for months. Possibly never. How could they be ok with that, Illya especially?</p><p>Next to him, Illya stiffens almost imperceptably. “Don’t worry Cowboy, if it bothers you too much I can ask for reassignment.”</p><p>“What? No!” The words are torn out of him before he can stop them. Illya only flinches in response, as if Napoleon had agreed it was a good idea. “That’s not— that won’t be necessary,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, but the effort is wasted when he can’t help but add, “unless that’s just your way of saying that it would bother <em>you</em> too much.”</p><p>Illya’s lips curl into a sneer. “If I meant that, I would have said it.”</p><p>“BOYS,” Gaby interrupts before Napoleon can answer, glaring daggers at both of them. “No one is getting reassigned. Do I have to remind you that Waverly doesn’t know about Illya? We’ll find Bekker. We just need a lead.”</p><p>Napoleon closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He didn’t really want to have to go this route, but that seems to be the name of the game this time. “I have a contact that might know something.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’re just telling us now,” Illya says, sounding exasperated.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure she won’t be happy to see me,” Napoleon hedges.</p><p>Gaby just rolls her eyes. “Why I am not surprised? Solo, call your contact, and do your best groveling.”</p><p>Napoleon would like to say that he does not grovel. He would like to say that he doesn’t want any shit from them, given he’s the only one with anything approaching a lead. He would like to be annoyed, but he can’t be, because Gaby just told them that they have two days to fix this, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if they don’t find Bekker.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The first thing he can think of when he sees her walk through the door at the club is how much she hasn’t changed. The dozen years since he’s seen her have been kind to her: her face is smooth and unlined, skin just as porcelin and dewy as the day he’d met her. He knows that the same cannot quite be said of him; despite his vanity in preserving his looks, the spy trade is hell on your body in every way possible.</p><p>She’s wearing a slinky red dress with a plunging neckline and no back, her dark hair swept up into an elegant bun. He watches with no small amount of amusement as every eye in the room turns to follow her when she passes, leaving a significant amount of dropped jaws in her wake. She’s the kind of woman that draws attention when she enters the room, which is what makes her success as a thief so surprising, but she’s still one of the best, or so he hears.</p><p>Her eyes flash when she catches sight of him where he’s leaning against the bar, and lets his lips fall into an easy, welcoming smile. The smile she returns is a mirror image of his own; well, he did teach her a lot of his tricks, back in the day.</p><p>“Evi, darling,” he greets, catching her hand and bringing it up to his lips. “It is a delight to see you again.”</p><p>“Napoleon, my love,” she returns with a heavy overlay of fake warmth. There’s something flickering in her eyes that is disconcerting, but before he can puzzle it out she socks him hard enough in the gut to make him double over and wheeze for air. “A delight,” she agrees.</p><p>The people in the club around them go quiet, clearly surprised by this sudden display of violence. Evi ignores them, turning to the bar and flagging down the bartender to order a drink. With as much dignity as he can muster, Napoleon straightens himself up and smooths down the front of his waistcoat. Slowly the conversation around them picks back up.</p><p>“Feel better?” he asks.</p><p>She looks back at him with a real smile this time and laughter in her eyes. “I do, thank you.”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon sees Illya sitting at the far end of the bar, ever-so-slowly nursing a vodka. His eyes are unmistakably filled with absolute bloody murder, and Napoleon flicks his hand up in a way that looks nonchalant but actually conveys something more along the lines of, <em>for the love of God, stand down</em>. Of course his partner had insisted on coming to the bar to keep an eye on him, and of course he’d bugged him. Napoleon only hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash.</p><p>“The years have been kind to you,” Napoleon says as he takes a drink of his scotch.</p><p>“Less so to you,” she replies brutally, and he just manages to keep from wincing. “Although, there’s something different. You do look good, Napoleon. Perhaps the straight and narrow agrees with you.”</p><p>He barks out a laugh at that, ignoring Illya’s scowl burning into the back of his head.</p><p>“So tell me,” she says, sipping her champagne, “to what do I owe a call from the infamous Napoleon Solo?”</p><p>“Ever the direct one,” he murmurs. “I need your help, Evi.”</p><p>Her expression says she knew this was coming, and he can’t blame her. His current circumstances aren’t much a secret, and there are few other reasons he would approach someone from his former life.</p><p>“Are you going to make it worth my while?” she asks.</p><p>“Of course. What do you take me for?”</p><p>Evi grins at him and reaches up to trail a finger along the line of his jaw. “You forget our history.”</p><p>“Never,” he says, and it’s the truth. The months he’d spent in Holland with Evi were a whirlwind of art, flowers, and passion, but also utterly unforgettable. “Have you heard of a man named Bekker? Chemist. Makes designer drugs. Probably not a very nice guy.”</p><p>Her lips twist into a frown and her brow furrows. The look she gives him can only be read as concern, despite how unlikely that seems. “Napoleon, tell me you’re not mixed up with him somehow.”</p><p>“Why? You know him?”<br/>
<br/>
“Only by name, and reputation,” she says. “He’s a sick bastard.”</p><p>Napoleon lets out a huff. “That, I know. We need to find him. Know where he might be?”</p><p>“We?” she asks, brow quirking.</p><p>“My organization,” he clarifies. “We’re trying to get him off the street.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, that I wholeheartedly support.” She grabs a napkin and a pen from the bar and scribbles an address on it, then tucks it into his breast pocket. “That’s where most of his recreational drugs enter the market. I assume they have some connection to him.” She pauses, looking uncertain for a moment. “I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”</p><p>“No, but I like hearing you say it anyway.” He smiles at her genuinely and can’t help but feeling just a little nostalgic.</p><p>She laughs, full throated and plainly delighted, and when she looks back at him he sees desire instead of danger in her eyes. “Oh Napoleon, I’ve missed our chats,” she tells him. Taking a step closer, she slides a hand behind his neck and pushes her fingers up into his hair. She leans close, her her breath hot on his neck and her lips brushing his ear. “Now, about what I get out of this.”</p><p>Napoleon hums and slides one hand around her waist to splay across her bare lower back, pulling her body against his. “And what would that be?”</p><p>Somehow she has managed to wind her hand in his tie without him realizing it, and she yanks it now to pull him into a searing kiss. She always was a good kisser, her tongue managing to make the most innocuous parts of his mouth erotic. He lets himself get lost in it, trying to forget all his troubles, which works until she turns them slightly. He opens his eyes, for some unknown reason, and has a direct line of sight to Illya. His partner’s face is a stone wall, but nothing can mask the emotions in his eyes.</p><p>Napoleon turns them again. He can’t let himself get drawn into this. He <em>can’t</em>. He’s allowed to have a good time, allowed to enjoy the company of someone who <em>really</em> likes him, not just because of some fucked up drug. He pulls back just enough to whisper to Evi, “Let’s find somewhere more private, yeah?”</p><p>“Lead the way,” she purrs, splaying a hand over his chest.</p><p>Napoleon fixedly does <em>not</em> look in Illya’s direction as they head toward the back.</p><p>This club is full of private rooms, he knows, and a bill slipped into the hand of a bouncer secures them a rather nice one. Evi wastes no time pushing him down onto the bed and straddling him. His hands slide over her smooth back as she kisses him deeply, yanking his shirt out of his pants. The buttons are no match for her deft fingers, and she’s soon divesting him of his shirt and jacket all at once.</p><p>“Hmm,” she hums when she sees his bare chest. She traces a finger over a long scar under his clavicle, then dips to one crossing several ribs. “These are new.”</p><p>“Rough life,” he murmurs.</p><p>He sets about kissing and sucking the long lines of her neck as her hands slide over more scars, until she hits one in his side, just above his hip. It’s a small, ragged line, and she swipes a thumb over it absently. In that moment he feels Illya’s hands on him instead, Illya’s fingers gently brushing his skin as he stitches up the wound, more tender than anyone would expect. It had been one of several moments that had shocked him into the realization that he wants more than friendship from his partner.</p><p>The air seems to be sucked out of the room and he pulls back gasping as he grabs her hand to pull it away. She looks unsurprisingly confused by this development, given that the wound is long since healed.</p><p>“Are you ok?” she asks.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he stammers unconvincingly. He pushes a hand through his hair and tries to clear his mind. Focusing on the beautiful woman in front of him should not be difficult, and yet… “Maybe we should take a rain check?” he suggests, hoping she’ll understand. “Things are just… tense right now.”</p><p>Evi is giving him an eviscerating look, stripping away all his artifice until her confusion gives way to resignation. “It’s your boyfriend at the end of the bar, isn’t it?”</p><p>“What?!” he practically squeaks, unable to control his voice.</p><p>“I saw the look he was giving you,” she says archly. “And me. Another girl might have felt threatened.”</p><p>Not her, though. Never Evi. Napoleon sighs. “It’s not what you think.”</p><p>Before he can do anything else she’s climbing off him and smoothing her dress down again. She thumbs the sides of her lips to clean up her smeared lipstick and stares down at him. After a moment a smile spreads onto her face, disconcertingly knowing and amused. “Mmm, whatever you say, Napoleon. You still owe me a favor.”</p><p>Illya is not at the bar when Napoleon emerges from the back, his rumpled shirt only partly concealed by his waistcoat. It’s a bit surprising that he would leave when he’d been so insistent about watching Napoleon’s back, but then again maybe he decided that he had nothing to worry about after he saw Napoleon and Evi’s interaction at the bar.</p><p>The walk back to the hotel is a long one, but Napoleon relishes the opportunity to try to clear his head. He knows that his feelings for Illya have been compromising his seductions for several missions now, but never as catastrophically as that had gone. Evi isn’t just anyone, though; she always did have an uncanny ability to see through the masks he tried to wear. Not unlike Illya, in a way. The thought is an uncomfortable one, and he attempts to push it out of his mind.</p><p>The door to the suite is locked when he gets there, and he has to fumble for his key. The chain catches when he tries to push the door open, and he sighs heavily.</p><p>“Peril? Mind letting me in?” he calls. It’s late, but he still doubts Illya will have gone to bed just yet.</p><p>For a long minute he thinks he is wrong, and that he’s going to be trapped out here, but then the door slams in his face and he hears the scrape of the chain disengaging. Illya does not open the door for him. Napoleon sighs again and opens the door to see his partner slumped in an armchair, staring unfocused at a bottle of vodka on the coffee table.</p><p>Fuck. This is bad. He should have insisted that Illya not come to the club, that it would be better if Gaby had been the one to watch out for Napoleon on this particular mission. At least she wouldn’t be trying to drown her feelings in vodka. He assumes she’s in her room, asleep or pretending to be; she’d begged off from going to the club, saying she needed some beauty rest.</p><p>Napoleon pulls off his jacket and puts it on the back of a chair, scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. Briefly he considers saying something, but really he’d rather not. Instead he walks over to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a healthy glass of scotch, intending to take it back to his room with him.</p><p>“Back early,” Illya mutters, quiet enough that it takes a moment for Napoleon to register what he’s said.</p><p>“Yes, well, it turns out that most women don’t care for being glowered at by an unsubtle Russian spy,” Napoleon shoots back. Illya has the grace to flinch at that, and Napoleon feels perversely vindicated. “You’re drinking.”</p><p>Illya glares up at him, his lips narrowed into a thin line. “Why not,” he challenges. “You do. Chop shop does. Maybe I am feeling left out.”</p><p>“Yes,” Napoleon sighs, “and you prefer to keep a clear head on missions. You’re going to regret this in the morning.” He steps toward Illya to grab the vodka bottle off the table, intending to put it away, but Illya grabs his wrist in a vice-like grip.</p><p>“Little late for that,” Illya snarls. He pulls himself to standing and uses his full height to tower over Napoleon.</p><p>Napoleon doesn’t know if he means it’s too late to keep a clear head, or too late for regrets. Quite possibly both. He clenches his jaw and glares up at Illya, unwilling to step back and cede any ground to the Russian. Only inches separate their faces, and under different circumstances Napoleon’s heart would be racing for reasons entirely other than utter, helpless fury. The worst kind. He’s furious with Illya, furious with himself, furious with the goddamn scientist who did this to his partner.</p><p>He has to reconsider his determination not to move when he sees Illya’s face soften slightly and hears a hitch in his breathing. Napoleon thought he was done fending off advances, but apparently the alcohol is serving quite well as an inhibition-remover tonight. “Peril…” he warns.</p><p>Illya will not be warned, though. The hand that isn’t holding Napoleon’s wrist lands on his waist, apparently testing the waters. His touch is unnaturally searing through Napoleon’s thin dress shirt—Illya’s hands are almost always cold, so where does he get off having warm hands tonight?—and Napoleon feels the heat of his fury draining away to be replaced but some other, hotter flame. He reaches his free hand up to press against Illya’s chest, trying his best to ignore the heart thumping hard under his fingers.</p><p>“You don’t want this, Peril,” he manages, weaker than he’d like. “Not really.”</p><p>“How do you know?” Illya challenges.</p><p>Napoleon absolutely does not allow his heart to jump into his throat at that, cannot permit the wild flicker of hope to grow into anything. He <em>knows</em> because Illya is drugged; he <em>knows</em> because before this mess his partner never so much as hinted that he was interested in Napoleon that way. “I know,” is all he manages to say.</p><p>“What about you, Cowboy?” Illya says, clearly not giving up. “What do you want?”</p><p>“What I want is irrelevant,” he answers bitterly. And then, because he’s hurting, and hegets cruel when he’s hurting, he adds, “what I <em>wanted</em> was to have a nice night with an old friend.”</p><p>This time Illya barely flinches, nothing more than a twitch of his lip. “You could have a nice night here,” he murmurs.</p><p>It’s all too much, hearing Illya say these things to him. Things that he’s only dreamed of hearing. He thought it would make him so happy, but Bekker stole that from him and all he can feel is the fury flooding back. He pushes Illya away, and, whether because he wasn’t expecting it or because he chooses to, Illya lets him go.</p><p>“No,” Napoleon says coldly, “I can’t.”</p><p>Illya’s fingers start to twitch. <em>Finally</em>, Napoleon thinks, as if it’s some victory to have finally made him angry, as if provoking Illya to destroy the furniture will somehow snap him out of this. Who knows, maybe it will. He’ll never admit it, but Napoleon wants to see Illya lose control in a way that doesn’t involve coming onto him. He wants the reminder of what could happen if he is weak and gives in, and Illya realizes later what they’ve done.</p><p>“Is it that disgusting to you? The idea of being with me?” Illya growls, fists clenched at his sides now, knuckles turning white.</p><p>For a moment Napoleon is shocked, and all he can say is, “what?”</p><p>“You go pick up women, sleep with marks, like it’s nothing. This is a step too far for even Napoleon Solo, then?”</p><p>The words are like a knife straight to Napoleon’s heart. He nearly chokes on the rush of emotions that well up inside him and the disbelief that Illya can think that this is anything like seducing a mark, that Illya can think that <em>he</em> is nothing more to Napoleon than one of his one-night stands.</p><p>“Is that what you think of me?” he demands, not caring that his voice is full of unconcealed anguish. He doesn’t care that Illya is drunk and his words are born of a jealousy that’s not real, because right now all of this is pretty damn real for Napoleon.</p><p>“Cowboy—” Illya begins, and Napoleon can’t even take comfort in how wide his eyes are, how clearly he regrets what he’s just said.</p><p>Napoleon cuts him off with the shake of his head. “I don’t <em>drug</em> them, Peril!” he yells.</p><p>“Napoleon, please, I’m sorry…” Illya pleads.</p><p>“I can’t do this right now,” Napoleon says. “I just can’t.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and walks out the door and into the hall of the hotel, not pausing until he’s emerged into the cool night air.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this first part. Illya POV is coming next!</p><p>It's always nerve-wracking to post a fic in a new fandom, and I'd love to hear what you think. ❤️❤️</p><p>Come say hi on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cha-melodius">tumblr</a>!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all so much for your amazing comments and for welcoming me with open arms to the fandom. I hope you enjoy Illya's perspective on things!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A random thought, a memory</em>
  <br/>
  <em>A tidal wave of energy, I’m on my knees</em>
  <br/>
  <em>A sudden change in everything</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Don't know what I would even feel when I'm free</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before the events of the past four days, if someone had asked Illya to describe his relationship with Napoleon Solo, he would have said that the American was a colleague and a friend. He wouldn’t mention the fact that he’s come to trust Napoleon more than he ever thought possible, or that he knows he worries about his partner more than he should, or that seeing a bright, genuine smile on Napoleon's face fills Illya with a warmth like he hasn’t felt since he was a very young child.</p>
<p>These things were concerning, of course, especially for a Russian spy working with someone who ostensibly should be his enemy under normal circumstances, but then again most of them could also be said of Gaby. He’d come to accept the feelings, and the fact that he was unlikely to be able to change them, as just part of the uniqueness of their partnership. He left the feelings alone and didn’t probe them too closely, even when not doing so led to him all but sacrificing his life for Napoleon’s on several occasions.</p>
<p>The drug changed everything, and not in the way that Napoleon obviously thinks. The first two days he could unmistakably feel it in his system, could practically sense the unreality of it all. Illya knew enough about love to know that the feelings were accompanied by just a bit too much euphoria, and his sudden lack of impulse control was obviously down to the drug. It took all of his considerable training not to throw himself at his partner, and even in that he had failed that night in the garden. He knew that, underneath it all, some of the feelings were real and only amplified by the drug—loyalty, of course, and even to some extent the devotion—but he had been unprepared for how many of them were.</p>
<p>The morning of the third day had dawned clean and bright, and he could immediately tell something was different. The kind of reckless giddiness that had suffused his thoughts was gone. His mind felt clearer, sharper, and he could look back on his actions the past two days with a critical eye, seeing the influence of the drug. As he got ready for the day he had reveled in how he felt like himself again. His mind was in control. Things were back to normal.</p>
<p>Or, they had seemed that way, until Illya caught himself staring breathlessly at the line of Napoleon’s neck as he craned for a better view of something, or the way his lips pouted when he found his glass of scotch mysteriously empty, or the way his hips moved subtly when he danced to a song only he could hear in the privacy of their suite. Gaby had caught him once or twice and inquired about his condition, and he’d answered as honestly as he could: it seemed that the drug was wearing off, but still affecting him.</p>
<p>He’d chalked up his jealousy at the club to that, trying and failing not to glower at Napoleon’s “friend.” With nothing else to do, he found himself thinking about how Evi reminded him of another of Napoleon’s past lovers, and how Illya had tailed Napoleon to his meet with her in that case too. Illya remembered being unaccountably grumpy that night, watching them flirt as he was doing again, and it was at that moment that everything had clicked into place.</p>
<p>The reason that everything had felt normal again was because it <em>was</em>.</p>
<p>He had thrown back two vodkas before he’d even heard the squeak of the bed spring, and then he’d stormed back to the hotel to put a serious dent in the bottle he knew resided in the liquor cabinet. Not drinking on missions be damned; he couldn’t deal with this newfound knowledge sober. With a terrible, stark clarity, he had understood that he’d been deluding himself for a while, but now that he knew there would be no going back to that blissful ignorance. He is in love with his partner. His partner who, if the past few days were any indication, decidedly does not want him.</p>
<p>The vodka had, he knows now, been a mistake. He hadn’t expected Napoleon back so soon, hadn’t expected to be found in a state that was, to be honest, not drunk <em>enough</em> for this. Not nearly drunk enough to deal with Napoleon’s obvious aversion to him, but plenty drunk enough to say things he regrets. The emotions that have been dredged out of the place he’d buried them are raw and close to the surface now, like an open wound.</p>
<p>After Napoleon storms out Illya is so busy wallowing in self-pity that he doesn’t hear the door of Gaby’s bedroom open at first. He doesn’t know how long she’s been watching him when he hears a soft, “Illya? Are you ok?”<br/><br/>His head snaps up and his eyes lock with hers, full of unvarnished concern for him. It’s not that surprising: he must look like a mess with how many times he’s pushed his hands through his hair, and he knows better than to think is face isn’t flushed or his eyes rimmed with red.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he lies, badly. Maybe she will go back to bed.</p>
<p>She does not. Instead, she frowns at him. “Illya. I have ears.”</p>
<p>“How much did you hear?” he asks, sighing.</p>
<p>Gaby shrugs. “All of it. You weren’t exactly being quiet.”<br/><br/>“Sorry.” He winces. If only he’d managed to control himself, he wouldn’t have managed to disturb not one but both partners tonight.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t sleeping,” she says, but she’s fighting a yawn and it only makes him feel worse. Instead of disappearing back into her room, though, she comes over to sit next to him on the couch, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “I know the feelings are difficult, but we’ll find Bekker. If the effects are this long lasting, maybe there’s an antidote we don’t know about.”</p>
<p>It would be so easy to pretend that was the case, that it is the drug and that’s what is upsetting him. But sooner or later, his partners are going to find out, and he’ll have nowhere else to hide. It’s not really fair: if he’d come to this realization any other way he’s pretty sure he would be able to hide his feelings from them, but now, either they don’t find Bekker and Napoleon never believes that he’s in his right mind, or they do and Bekker outs him for being free of the drug for days.</p>
<p>“I don’t think it’s the drug anymore,” he says quietly, resignedly, staring at the floor again.</p>
<p>Gaby is silent, and at first he wants to think she hasn’t heard him, but he knows better. He can practically feel the shock eminating from her. “What?” she breathes, confirming his suspicions.</p>
<p>“I could feel the effects, in first two days,” he forces himself to explain. “It was constant fight for control. Then yesterday, nothing.”</p>
<p>“But you’re still…” She doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t say the words.</p>
<p>He nods anyway. “I don’t know…” he starts, “I can’t…”</p>
<p>Suddenly the weight of everything is crashing down on him, and a choked sob escapes his lips before he can stop it. Gaby pulls him over to her, wraps her arms around him as he buries his face in her shoulder. “It’s ok,” she murmurs, smoothing a hand over his hair. They sit like that for a while, until his breathing evens out. “Is it…” Gaby ventures, clearly trying to broach the subject gently, “do you think the drug changed something…?”</p>
<p>Illya shakes his head into her shoulder. “No. Not in the way you think. Maybe it forced me to confront feelings I try to ignore. Even before…” He shakes his head again and takes a deep, shuddery breath. Gaby’s hand is tracing soothing circles over his back, and he focuses on the sensation, letting it ground him. “I tell myself, it is something else. Could not consider that I could… that I…” …<em>that I love him</em>. He can’t quite make himself say it out loud.</p>
<p>“How long?” Gaby asks, and he doesn’t have to ask what she means.</p>
<p>“Weeks,” he mutters. “Months. I don’t know.” In truth, looking back on it now, he could not pinpoint a time when things changed, when Napoleon had snuck in between his ribs like the thief he was and lodged himself securely in Illya’s heart.</p>
<p>“Oh, Illya,” she whispers, her arms tightening around him. They sit like that for a long while, until Illya finds the strength in her embrace to put himself back together. Eventually he pulls away from her slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face. Gaby looks at him critically, her brow furrowed. “You should tell him,” she says.</p>
<p>“He won’t believe it. Thinks I’m not myself,” Illya argues with a shake of his head. “What would be the point, anyway. He has made it very clear he is not interested.”</p>
<p>Gaby gives him a look, very clearly biting her tongue, and he thinks he’s missing something. Nothing about Napoleon the past several days has suggested that he returns Illya’s feelings. Besides the fact that he rebuffed all of Illya’s advances, he has been clearly uncomfortable with even the smaller signs of affection and generally miserable at the idea that Illya could be in love with him.</p>
<p>“You need to talk to him,” she repeats stubbornly.</p>
<p>Illya thinks it will likely be a moot point anyway; they will find Bekker, and Napoleon will find out one way or the other. It will be easier, he thinks, if Illya is not the one to tell him.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Napoleon doesn’t come back that night.</p>
<p>Illya knows something is wrong when he stumbles out of his bedroom early the next morning, squinting against the low throb of a headache, to see Napoleon’s jacket still hanging on a chair. The seat back has pushed dents into the shoulders of the expensive suit, and he knows that his partner would never leave his clothing like that unless… unless something was wrong.</p>
<p>Suddenly very awake, he pounds on Gaby’s door and goes to check Napoleon’s room while he waits for her to emerge. It’s empty, the bed untouched, as he expected. It’s possible Napoleon went to find Evi again, or someone else, and is in another bed at the moment, but he doesn’t want to consider that right now. Besides, the jacket says otherwise.</p>
<p>Gaby is rubbing her eyes, looking like she can’t decide between being annoyed and alarmed. “What’s going on?”</p>
<p>“Solo didn’t come back,” he tells her quickly. “Look. The jacket.”</p>
<p>Her eyes slowly widen by degrees as she comes to the same conclusion he did, moments before. They spring into action, dressing quickly and gearing up with an array of weapons. Illya doesn’t want to think about how long Napoleon has been gone, but he calculates it anyway: at least 6 hours. Long enough that he could be far away right now. Illya curses in Russian; he should have stayed up, he should have waited for Napoleon to return.</p>
<p>“You have a tracker on him, right?” Gaby asks.</p>
<p>Of course he does, he thinks. He always does. But then he freezes, remembering Napoleon showing off his new shoes, the ones he hadn’t had time to bug, and then he’d been so out of his head that he hadn’t remembered.</p>
<p>“Illya?” she prompts, her voice tense. “You have one, don’t you?”</p>
<p>He gives his head an infinitesimal shake. “Only in his jacket,” he whispers.</p>
<p>“We’ll find him,” she says immediately, and Illya doesn’t know if she’s trying to convince him or herself. “We’ll find him. Did you guys get any intel? Last night, in the club? Maybe he went off on his own, looking for Bekker.”</p>
<p>It’s not an unreasonable assumption, and in a flash he remembers seeing Evi stuff a napkin into the breast pocket of Napoleon’s suit. It’s still there when he looks for it, an address in a loopy scrawl. What had she said? It was where Bekker’s drugs entered the market. Maybe it was a trap, and all her geniality—after the punch, of course—was an act, but she’d also warned Napoleon to be careful. Regardless, it’s the only thing they have.</p>
<p>Illya shows Gaby, and she nods. “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>Gaby drives like a madwoman through the narrow streets of Amsterdam, the early hour working in their favor to keep people off the streets. They don’t speak except for Illya’s monosyllabic directions. He focuses intently on the map in front of him, trying desperately to keep his mind from dwelling on new and horrifyingly creative ideas of what might have happened to his partner.</p>
<p>He manages to convince Gaby to stay in the car for a quick getaway—it’s unlikely Napoleon is here, after all, if this really is just a distribution point—and draws his gun as he approaches the building. It’s a club, and decidedly not open at this time of day, but Illya just kicks the door in and quickly descends the stairs into the underground space.</p>
<p>The club appears deserted, and Illya has to fight down a surge of panic that it’s nothing more than a dead end. He’s certainly not waiting until people show up later tonight to find out. Moving silently, he clears room by room until he’s made it to a closed door at the end of the hallway. There are no sounds coming from the room on the other side, so he kicks it open with a bang to find a thin, weasily man rocketing upward from where he’d clearly been asleep on the couch.</p>
<p>“Don’t even think about it,” Illya growls as the man reaches toward a gun laying on the floor next to him.</p>
<p>The man reconsiders his plan and puts his hands up instead, shoulders creeping up toward his ears in plain fear. <em>Good</em>, Illya thinks. Fear is useful. “I–I don’t have an–any money here,” the man stammers. He has yet to take his eyes off Illya’s gun.</p>
<p>“Where is he?” Illya demands.</p>
<p>The man’s eyes flicker up to Illya’s face and back down to the gun. “I d–don’t know w–what you’re t–talking about, man,” he whines pitifully.</p>
<p>“American. Dark hair. Wearing suit with no jacket. He came here last night, I know.” He adds the last part even if he doesn’t know for sure, because it’s the only thing that makes sense.</p>
<p>The man’s eyes widen and Illya knows he was right. Unfortunately, the man does not seem to be so talkative anymore. Illya lets out a low growl that he knows sounds more than a little deranged, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Flicking the barrel of the gun ever so slightly he sends a bullet into the couch next to where the man sits.</p>
<p>“Answer question, or next one does not miss,” he snarls.</p>
<p>“Ok, ok!” the man shrieks, “<em>Godverdomme</em>! He came in asking about drugs, ya? At first I think he is just another stupid tourist, wants to get high. But then he is asking about <em>de chemicus</em>. Wants to meet him. <em>De chemicus</em> told me to call if anyone asks about him, so I do. They take your friend to the back, and then I do not see him again. That is all I know, I swear!”</p>
<p><em>Goddammit Cowboy,</em> Illya thinks, swearing under his breath. Why would he come here? Do something so stupid? <em>Because he wants to fix you</em>, something inside Illya says. The answer leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.</p>
<p>“Where did they take him?” he demands.</p>
<p>The man pushes backwards into the couch, but there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t know!”</p>
<p>“Not. Good. Enough,” Illya grits out through clenched teeth. He punctuates each word with a small forward movement of the gun, and the man’s already comically wide eyes somehow get even wider.</p>
<p>“They have a facility!” he cries out. “In de Westpoort. Kraton Industries. Black building, end of Westhavenweg.”</p>
<p>In a flash Illya is on the man, hog tying him with the rope he’d brought along with him.At first the man struggles but goes still when he feels Illya’s gun press to the back of his head. “You try to escape, warn them we are coming, I will come find you after and kill you, <em>da</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>Ja</em>, ok, I understand,” he says meekly. He looks absolutely wretched, but honestly he could be in a lot worse shape. Illya is quite proud of himself for not losing his temper, although he can’t promise anything when they get to the facility.</p>
<p>Moments later the tires of their borrowed car are squealing as Gaby peels out and sends them rocketing toward the Westpoort. Illya tells her what the man told him, and her mouth disappears into a hard line.</p>
<p>“Idiot!” she swears, swerving wildly around a stray dog in the road. “What was he thinking, going alone!?”</p>
<p>It’s a mostly rhetorical question, and Illya doesn’t answer. All of the nauseating scenarios he had been trying to ignore come flooding back into his head. Six hours is a very long time.</p>
<p>The Westpoort is bustling by the time they get there, humming with the morning business of an industrial port. With a sinking feeling, Illya realizes that if Bekker had wanted to move Napoleon it would be staggeringly easy to do so from this location. Ships of various sizes line the docks along the spit of land that they drive along, some of which would easily provide a quick getaway with a hostage if needed. He pushes the thought out of his head; Napoleon has to be here. He <em>has</em> to.</p>
<p>A few hundred meters past the facility Gaby pulls the car into a relatively deserted alleyway. The approach will be tricky; they don’t have the cover of darkness, and the main road is irritatingly busy. Illya feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin as they walk nonchalantly toward the building, drawing curious looks despite their best efforts. Finally they reach a narrow alleyway next to the building and slip down it, out of sight. Halfway down they find a side door that is miraculously unlocked; Illya can’t decide if it’s a good sign because it means people are there, or a bad one because it means there’s nothing left worth locking up.</p>
<p>He’s thankful now that Gaby had insisted on bringing the tranquilizer guns; this morning, all he had wanted to do was kill everyone involved in Napoleon’s abduction, but there are far too many people in the area, and they can’t afford to draw attention to their activities. Unlike the area outside, though, the facility itself is eerily quiet. They slip silently through empty halls, clearing the first floor and the second with no results. Illya can feel the bile rising in his throat and his hands begin trembling around his gun. They are too late.</p>
<p>“Illya!” Gaby hisses from down the hall, back on the first floor. She gestures with her chin to a door and Illya sees a stairwell leading underground. With effort, he manages to school his hands back to calmness as they descend. Before they even reach the bottom they hear voices echoing down the hallway.</p>
<p>Here, they finally find guards but they drop them one by one, and the voices never falter. It seems like ages until he and Gaby reach the room where the voices are eminating from. There is a large bank of windows along one wall and they duck down underneath, near the door, pausing to listen.</p>
<p>“… told my notebook is missing,” a man is saying in heavily-accented English. “I assume you took it, if you tracked me here.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Napoleon says, voice carrying out of the room. “I just heard about your more <em>unusual</em> products and the next thing I know, I’m drugged and bound. Really, is that any way to treat a potential distributor?”</p>
<p>“Enough. My people said there were two men, one who evaded the trap. You are him, no? The one who did not get dosed.”</p>
<p>Napoleon is silent for a beat, and Illya has to resist peeking through the window above him. He doesn’t know where Bekker is in the room, and doesn’t know if there are others in there with them. He can’t risk being seen just yet.</p>
<p>“How do you know?” Napoleon says. Not quite an admission, but not <em>not</em> one either.</p>
<p>Bekker lets out a little chuckle. “My people have to call me because they need instructions on scaling up the dose. You, my friend, are no 195cm-tall Russian. Tell me, did they get it right? How did he react to the dosage?”</p>
<p>They can hear Napoleon snarl and struggle against his restraints, all pretense abandoned. “Where is the antidote?” he demands. Illya’s fingers tightens on his gun, but Gaby’s hand on his forearm makes him pause. He hears someone clear their throat quietly in the room, so clearly Napoleon and Bekker are not alone.</p>
<p>“Antidote?” Bekker laughs. “Oh my. There is no antidote. The drug wears off in 48 hours, no more.”</p>
<p>“Well then your people fucked up,” Napoleon spits, “because he’s still… still…”</p>
<p>Illya’s chest aches at the desperation in Napoleon’s voice and suddenly he wants to be the one to tell him, not Bekker. There’s no way it won’t happen, though. He tucks his tranquilizer gun away, pulling out his pistol and silencer. Gaby shoots him a look but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to knock out this son of a bitch, he wants to kill him, or at least hurt him severely. The mission is to make sure Bekker doesn’t make any more drugs. Waverly never said he had to be taken alive.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, but it’s simply not possible,” Bekker explains. “Even higher dosages never led to prolonged effects in any of our trials.” Illya listens with resignation to the words he already knows are true. Taking a deep breath, he tunes them out and just listens to the volume and quality of the scientist’s voice. Bekker is walking around the room, voice getting louder and softer as he turns toward them and away. Then he seems to pause, facing away from the window, and Illya senses his chance.</p>
<p>“… never had a subject who was already in love with their imprinter,” Bekker is saying, apparently disgustingly delighted by this information, as Illya stands and steps toward the door. “Fascinating! I do hope he shows. I have so many questions.”</p>
<p>“Wish granted,” Illya growls, and shoots out both of Bekker’s knees in a single economical sweep of his arm. As the scientist collapses to the floor he realizes that there are four guards in the room, but before they can react to his sudden appearance Illya hears four soft pops behind him and they crumple. Despite Bekker’s pitiful groaning there are no footsteps approaching the room, so they must be alone or near to it.</p>
<p>Gaby rushes to Napoleon’s side to free him from the restraints, but he doesn’t look at her. He’s too busy staring open-mouthed at Illya, who, for his part, is frozen under the weight of Napoleon’s gaze. His heart is pounding, and the blood rushing in his ears is so loud he can’t hear what Gaby is saying, doesn’t know if she’s talking to him or Napoleon or both of them. <em>This is it</em>, he thinks, and the unmistakable horror in Napoleon’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know.</p>
<p>“I’ll go call Waverly,” he announces suddenly, cutting off whatever Gaby had been saying. “We need a cleanup team.” <em>And I need to ask for a transfer</em>, he thinks bitterly.</p>
<p>He just manages not to put a bullet in Bekker’s forehead before he turns and walks out of the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The car ride back to the hotel is, as could be expected, tense and silent. Napoleon had apparently only been dosed with a sedative and is otherwise uninjured, which would feel lucky under any other circumstances. Illya sits in the front and fiddles restlessly with the face of his father’s watch, studiously ignoring the sidelong glares that Gaby is throwing at him.</p>
<p>The mission is done, now. Bekker is in custody, and the rest of his operation rolled up easily. From the outside it appears that, for once, none of them were injured, but Illya thinks the invisible wounds that have been inflicted on their partnership are more damaging than all the gun shots and stabs they’ve ever taken put together.</p>
<p>As Illya stares at the road in front of him, he ponders the possible futures that stretch before him, none of them good. He wonders if the KGB would have him back, after all this time in the west. Probably not, if he’s being honest. Staying with U.N.C.L.E. will likely be impossible, in any case. His earlier conversation with Waverly echoes in his head.</p>
<p>
  <em>“This is quite a surprise, Mr. Kuryakin. I assume you have a good reason?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I am compromised, sir,” Illya had responded, keeping his voice even. “I do not think Solo will wish to work with me in the future.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Waverly had been silent for a beat. “I’m sorry, Kuryakin, but I don’t think that will be possible. We can, however, discuss it further when you return, if you wish.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thank you, sir.”</em>
</p>
<p>“Illya!” Gaby shouts, and he’s dimly aware that it’s not the first time she’s called his name. He blinks slowly, like coming out of a dream, and turns to look at her. “We’re here.”</p>
<p>Behind her, he can see Napoleon’s back as he disappears through the front door of the hotel. The tension in his partner’s shoulders is plainly visible, and Illya thinks it’s going to be a long trip back to London. With a heavy sigh he moves to unfold himself from the small car, but Gaby stops him with a hand on his forearm.</p>
<p>“Illya, you need to talk to him,” she says gently. Her eyes are full of compassion and he can’t bear it, so he stares fixedly ahead instead.</p>
<p>“What is there to talk about?” Illya replies. “He already knows. He cannot even look at me.”</p>
<p>Out of the corner of his eye he sees her purse her lips, clearly frustrated, but what does she want him to do? The damage is already done and nothing he can say will mitigate it. “We can’t work together if you don’t speak to each other,” she huffs out.</p>
<p>“I have already asked Waverly for a reassignment,” he tells her, fighting to keep his voice detached.</p>
<p>“You <em>what?!</em>” she yells, punctuating it with a smack on his shoulder. He flinches involuntarily; Illya had known something like this would happen, but that never made weathering her wrath any easier. “You—! And him—!” she sputters, apparently so angry she’s at a loss for words. “<em>Gah</em>!”</p>
<p>With that she storms out of the car, slamming the door behind her, leaving Illya wondering what he should do now. He considers going for a walk, but Waverly could contact them at any point with their travel arrangements, so he reluctantly gets out of the car and trudges slowly toward the hotel.</p>
<p>The shouting coming from inside their suite can be heard clear down the hall. He almost turns around, because he simply cannot deal with this right now, but some unseen force seems to compel him toward the room. When he pushes open the door he finds the common area of the room empty, and that Gaby and Napoleon are shouting at each other from inside Napoleon’s room. It makes the fact that their voices are carrying so far doubly impressive.</p>
<p>He hums softly himself to try to block out the words; he knows they are fighting about him, and he absolutely does not want to know what they are saying. Fortunately once he shuts his door their voices are sufficiently muffled as to render them unintelligable. He lies back on the bed and picks up the book he’d been reading from the bedside table, knowing he won’t be able to focus but desperate for a distraction nonetheless.</p>
<p>After a few more minutes the voices go quiet and he hears the front door to the suite slam. Napoleon, probably, leaving again. At least this time he can’t go recklessly running after their target, although Illya knows better than to think he can’t still get into trouble. Illya tries to force himself not to care.</p>
<p>Moments later, the soft knock on his door isn’t much of a surprise, but the person standing on the other side when he opens it is. Napoleon stands before him, still in his shirtsleeves, staring awkwardly at the ground. He’s wringing his hands nervously, looking more unsure of himself than Illya has ever seen before. It’s oddly endearing, and Illya has to fight the feelings welling up inside him.</p>
<p>“Yes, Cowboy?” Illya prompts when his partner doesn’t say anything.</p>
<p>Napoleon looks up at him, then, blue eyes wide and unguarded. Illya doesn’t know how to name what he sees in them. “Thanks for getting me out of there,” Napoleon says eventually.</p>
<p>“Of course,” Illya replies. Napoleon doesn’t speak again and Illya wonders if he really came just to say that. After a few more minutes of silence he makes a move to turn away, and it seems to jolt Napoleon into action.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Illya.”</p>
<p>Illya pauses, raising an eyebrow at him; it is rare that Napoleon uses his given name. He has a vague memory of Napoleon calling it when they had found Illya in the lab, but other than that it has been a long time. “What for?”</p>
<p>“For everything, the last four days,” he breathes out in a rush. Abruptly he pushes past Illya into the room and begins pacing across the small space, staring at the ground as he speaks. Illya sighs and goes to sit on the bed, waiting with no small amount of dread for what is coming.</p>
<p>“I mean, not for the beginning, really, I couldn’t let you do something when you weren’t really in control,” Napoleon says, rambling slightly in his discomfort. “But later, when I could tell the drug was wearing off… well, I didn’t think it was possible. That it would ever <em>be</em> possible. That you could really feel that way about me. I never meant to hurt you. It was a terrible attempt at… at self-preservation.”</p>
<p>“What?” Illya had followed his statements, had understood that Napoleon was trying to let him down gently, right up until the last one.</p>
<p>Napoleon stops in his tracks and looks up at him. He appears to be looking for something in Illya’s eyes, and whatever it is, he seems to find it. It takes him only a couple of strides to close the gap between them and then he is so terribly close, standing between Illya’s legs and looking down at him where he still sits on the bed. Illya’s face angles up by necessity just to look at his partner, and he becomes painfully aware that their mouths are now mere centimeters apart.</p>
<p>Napoleon’s lips curve ever-so-slightly into a the ghost of a smile, and Illya feels his breath catch in his throat as Napoleon slowly raises a hand to Illya’s face. The brush of his fingers is light, tentative, questioning, like he’s still not sure how Illya feels and is giving him an out. Illya leans into his touch as an answer and lets his own hands slide up to rest lightly on Napoleon’s hips.</p>
<p>It’s unclear which of them finally closes the small remaining gap; it seems more than likely that it is both of them at once. Their lips meet hungrily, all uncertainty utterly abandoned. Napoleon’s fingers slide back into Illya’s hair, pressing their mouths somehow even tighter together, and even that is enough to pull a low moan of pleasure from Illya’s throat. He feels Napoleon smile against his mouth for a moment before Illya swallows it, opening his mouth to let Napoleon lick past his teeth. The need within him is almost desperate, like he’s drawing life itself from Napoleon’s kisses, and if his lungs are burning then it’s a small price to pay.</p>
<p>Eventually the necessity of oxygen wins out and they break apart, chests heaving. Napoleon leans his forehead against Illya’s, his hands still cradling Illya’s head, and he exhales hot breaths into the small space between them. Illya can just see parts of his face from their current position: eyes heavily lidded, a bright pink flush high on his cheeks, and bright red kiss-bitten lips stretched into a wide, blissful smile.<br/><br/>“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Napoleon confesses.</p>
<p>“Really?” Illya breathes. It doesn’t quite seem possible, that Napoleon could feel that way and never let it slip, but as he thinks about it Illya realizes that the signs were subtle but there, just as the signs of Illya’s true feelings had been. Never once considered as a possibility.</p>
<p>Somehow, Napoleon’s smile manages to get wider. “Yeah,” he murmurs as he begins nuzzling his way across Illya’s temple, pressing feather-light kisses to his skin. “You have no idea how hard it was for me not to kiss you when you were…” He trails off, pausing in his path along Illya’s cheek.</p>
<p>Illya doesn’t want him thinking about that, but it’s too late: clearly, he’s hesitating again. “I’m sorry, Cowboy,” he says, raising one of his hands to cradle Napoleon’s jaw.</p>
<p>“Why are you apologizing, Peril,” Napoleon laughs, but there is little humor in it. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t in control.”</p>
<p>“I was last night. Well, mostly,” Illya replies. His throat feels tight, and he doesn’t really want to talk about this—especially not right now—but he can’t let Napoleon blame himself for everything. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”</p>
<p>“Illya—” he begins, but Illya cuts him off with another kiss.</p>
<p>It seems to do the trick. Napoleon’s hesitation vanishes as he throws himself into the kiss again. Illya snakes his hand up into Napoleon’s hair, winding his fingers around the waves that he teases out from the control of his pomade. His other hand slides around to grab Napoleon’s ass, and when Illya pulls Napoleon’s body close he feels Napoleon’s half hard erection press against his stomach. It’s Napoleon’s turn to groan as he pushes Illya backward onto the bed. They part for a second and Illya scrambles backwards to allow Napoleon to climb up onto the bed with him, clutching tightly at Napoleon’s collar so there’s no mistaking his intentions.</p>
<p>To his relief Napoleon follows eagerly, chasing after Illya’s lips before settling lower to suck a bruise over his pulse. Illya finds himself pulling rather more frantically than he might have hoped at Napoleon’s shirt, yanking the back of it out of his pants and sliding his hands along the smooth skin of Napoleon’s back. The scars Illya finds there are familiar, maybe even moreso than his own after so many bloody nights sewing up his partner’s wounds. His fingers trace out the line of one he knows well under Napoleon’s ribs; the knife had barely missed his kidney, and that night, after he’d carefully sewn up the gash, Illya had only just managed to keep from tearing apart his room in the safehouse when he realized how close it had come.</p>
<p>Illya is so lost in the moment that he almost doesn’t hear the door to the suite open, but the soft <em>snick</em> of the lock is enough to force his eyes open. Napoleon must hear it as well, because he freezes, his mouth still pressed to Illya’s neck.</p>
<p>“Close the goddamn door!” Gaby yells at them, and moments later they hear the door to her room slam.</p>
<p>Napoleon’s lips curl into a smile against his skin and abruptly he is laughing, loud and unfettered. The sound seems to wrap itself around Illya’s heart and fill him with a searing warmth that he barely knows what to do with. Then Napoleon collapses down on top of him, forcing out all of his air in a rush.</p>
<p>“Cowboy,” he manages, pressing a kiss to Napoleon’s temple, “get the door.”</p>
<p>Napoleon’s grumbling is weakened by the fact that he is practically giggling as he pushes himself off of Illya and goes to close the door. The look in his eyes when he turns back is full of so much unbridled desire that it takes Illya’s breath away.</p>
<p>“Now, where were we?” Napoleon purrs, and the movement he makes as he joins Illya on the bed again is practically a pounce.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>He wakes to find himself in an utter tangle of sheets and limbs. For a moment it hardly seems real, but Napoleon is clinging to him like an octopus and there is a deep, sweet ache in his bones that brings back all the memories of the previous night. Illya lets his mouth spread into a grin and buries his face in Napoleon’s hair, drinking in the scent of his pomade and sweat and the musk of sex. It’s everything he never knew he wanted.</p>
<p>Outside the room he can hear Gaby moving around in the common area of the suite, but he can’t reach a clock and he can’t find it within himself to care. The mission is complete, and they won’t fly back until later in the afternoon. He knows he should go out and see how Gaby is doing, apologize for driving her mad with their idiocy, but it can wait. For now he tightens his arm around Napoleon and is rewarded by a little noise of protest as his partner buries his face further into Illya’s chest.</p>
<p>“Morning Peril,” Napoleon mumbles after a while, stretching a little as he fights a yawn. “You’re still here.”</p>
<p>It’s not a question, or an accusation. There is still uncertainty in Napoleon’s voice, like he is expecting Illya to have regretted what they’ve done, expecting this to be ripped away from him at any moment, and it breaks Illya’s heart. He realizes with a sinking feeling the true extent of the damage that Bekker’s drug has done, not to Illya, but to Napoleon. He tries to imagine what it would be like, to reverse their positions, and he just barely suppresses a shudder. Illya is not quite sure how he is supposed to be the one who is the rock in this situation—in something that seems like Napoleon should be so much more confident in—but he knows he will try his hardest. He tightens his arm again, holding Napoleon close, and presses a kiss into his hair.</p>
<p>“Where else would I be, Cowboy?” Illya murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “This is my bed.”</p>
<p>He feels Napoleon’s mouth quirk up in a lopsided smile and then the soft press of lips against his skin. “Right you are, Peril.” There is a soft clatter from outside the room, and the sound of Gaby cursing. “I suppose we should go see how Miss Teller is doing this fine morning.”<br/><br/>“In a bit,” Illya says. Gently, he hooks a finger under Napoleon’s chin and tips his face up, capturing his lips in a tender kiss. Napoleon seems to melt in his embrace, all smiles and softness like Illya would have never expected, before last night.</p>
<p>Illya doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears a firm knock on his door, but it hasn’t nearly been long enough. “I know you’re awake in there,” Gaby calls. She waits for a moment, and then continues. “Something’s come up; Waverly wants us back on an earlier flight, and I want breakfast before we go. Stop canoodling and get dressed or I’ll make one of you sit in the middle seat.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t take long to throw on his slacks and turtleneck, and Illya is thankful that the high neckline easily hides the marks that Napoleon left the previous night. When he pulls open the door he finds Gaby still standing on the other side, arms crossed in front of her chest, the expression on her face a strange mixture of annoyance and smugness.</p>
<p>“We were not ‘canoodling’, whatever that means,” Illya protests under her shrewd gaze, hoping to hide the warmth he feels in his cheeks by turning back into the room to grab his bag.</p>
<p>Napoleon pads out of the room with his crumpled clothes thrown haphazardly on, smirking at Gaby as he heads to get changed. “You’re going to have to find a threat with more teeth in it, my dear. Did you ever consider that maybe I’ll want to relinquish my window seat to sit next to Peril?”</p>
<p>Gaby just rolls her eyes at him. “You two are going to be insufferable,” she groans.</p>
<p>“You love us!” Napoleon calls back from within his room.</p>
<p>“Unfortunately,” she grumbles as she glares after him, not without a good deal of obvious affection.</p>
<p>Illya drops his bag near the door and walks back over to Gaby, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you, Chop shop. For… everything.” He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if she had not been there to knock some sense into them.</p>
<p>Her face softens as she smiles up at him and she reaches out to grab his hand, squeezing it gently. “Someone’s got to look after you boys. Just promise me you’ll talk to each other instead of requesting reassignments the next time one of you gets upset?”<br/><br/>Illya stares off across the room to where he can just see Napoleon, putting on a tie to go to breakfast, and smiles. His heart feels tight in his chest, and everything still seems a little unreal, but he knows that, no matter what, he doesn’t want to lose this.</p>
<p>“I promise,” Illya replies, and it’s one he knows he can keep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>First, I am sorry for Illya's cheesy one-liner when he rescues Napoleon but I just <i>could not</i> resist. 😂 Of course I had to wrap this up with soft boys being soft, because I am weak for that.</p>
<p>Thank you all so much for reading. Your comments mean the world to me, and I'd love to hear what you thought of this. I have a ton of TMFU plot bunnies jumping around in my head right now, so I'm sure you'll see me back before too long with another story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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